


Fashion sense

by Tseecka



Series: MorMor Continuity [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothes, Drabble, Feels, Jim's ass, M/M, leather pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian knows Jim dresses to impress; he can't help that he is most affected when Jim isn't trying at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashion sense

There’s something about Jim in a pair of well-cut jeans that gets Sebastian every time. 

Don’t misunderstand; he loves his boss in those tailored suits, the way they fall and drape over his limbs, moving with a subtle whisper of fabric and screaming of power. Christ, does he love those suits. Suits say “Daddy means business,” suits mean there’s work to be done, and blood to be spilled and Jim is probably going to be screaming mad when they get home later, because people are idiots and no one does as they should, except himself and Sebastian (sometimes). He radiates anger and power and /dominance/ in those suits and Sebastian drinks it up like a fine wine (swishes it around in his mouth and tastes the dry bite of it before he swallows, and that analogy is every bit as intentional as you think it is, because Sebastian _really loves Jim in suits_.)

And, god, there are those leather trousers hanging in the corner of Jim’s closet and Sebastian loves him in those too. They hug the curve of his thighs and the bend of his knee and the lean long muscles in his calves so well, and that’s not even mentioning the fabric stretched all taut and shiny over his perfect, glorious ass or, mercy, the subtle shadows and gleams that show off exactly what’s hiding in the front. Jim in leather trousers is sex on fuckin’ legs, and Sebastian loves it. The barest hint—the squeak of leather, moving on the other side of the bedroom door, or coming down the hall towards the living room—it’s enough to make him salivate, get his cock all hard between his legs before he even knows it’s happening. Jim in leather trousers means sex, hot and hard and now. He doesn’t even mind that he’s a total Pavlovian dog for it, Jim’s a sexy bastard at the best of times, and a damn good fuck, and Jim in leather trousers means he knows it and he plans to remind Sebastian of it just in case he’s somehow forgotten. (He hasn’t, he’s like a damn teenager, dreaming of those leather pants and waking up hard and leaking at least twice a week). 

But goddamn. Jim in jeans; it’s a different animal entirely, more elusive than anything Sebastian’s ever hunted before, and the reward for catching sight of it is a bigger thrill than the best game hunt he’s ever had, and that’s counting the humans he’s picking off regularly, now. Because all the rest of Jim’s closet is Jim powerful, dominant, a king among men and Sebastian’s liege lord. He’s got no choice but to bow and lick those damn boots, and anything else Jim presents for him to lick, and do it happily; because Sebastian loves to be ruled almost as much as he loves bucking authority, and leather and suiting do that for him very nicely. 

It’s the fact that Jim in jeans is Jim casual, relaxed, at ease in the world. Because Sebastian knows he’s the only one that gets to see Jim in jeans, and he’s fucking priveleged for it and honoured by the privelege. Jim in jeans isn’t going to rip him a new one, isn’t going to shackle him to the bed and slice him open with his knives and his words and his cock until Sebastian is bleeding in every way; in jeans, Jim is  _just_  Jim, no Moriarty, no criminal mastermind. When Jim shows up in his jeans Sebastian knows it’s a night for them, for Jim and Sebastian; not the master and his dog, or the tamer and his tiger, but just two men who ended up together in this fucked up insane asylum city and fell for each other just a bit. 

The jeans don’t cling like leather, or hint like suit trousers; they just sit on him, taut around the hips and loose all the way down to Jim’s sock feet, and look like nothing all that special. What’s special is the way the denim runs through his fingers, biting gently with it’s rough weave into his fingertips as he pulls the material away from Jim’s body and loves the fact that these few times he’s allowed to be gentle, allowed to be as reverrent as he wants, treat Jim’s body like the fuckin’ temple the man seems bent on destroying all too often. And Jim doesn’t mock him for it, pulls him up with a gentle tug on his shoulders and kisses him softly as their bodies slide together in warm heat, because Jim only wears his jeans when he wants Sebastian to be kind, when he wants to actually fuckin’ make love and not shag, and not fuck; when he decides it’s time to remind Sebastian that there’s more to this, to them, than their everyday and somewhere in that twisted thorny lonely mind of his, he actually does fuckin’ care. 

Jim in jeans doesn’t make him hard like the leather, or make him ache like the trousers; there’s no undercurrent of fear, no testing of the boundaries, because there are none. It’s a sign of absolute trust, the fact that Jim even has those jeans in his closet at all, and when he puts them on Sebastian knows he’s allowed to actively, visibly, cherish that. Cherish him. 

When that blue denim sidles into his peripheral, Sebastian knows that he’ll be saying “I love you” before the night is out, and hearing it in return, and that for a few brief hours it will be meant and honoured and powerful. 

That’s why he loves Jim in jeans.


End file.
